


Night of Sixth Magnitude Stars

by brumalbreeze



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brumalbreeze/pseuds/brumalbreeze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time I made a love confession, I was ruthlessly rejected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night of Sixth Magnitude Stars

**Author's Note:**

> I made an "audio book" of sorts for this. You can hear me narrating this story [here](http://brumalbreeze.tumblr.com/post/34986440670/in-pursuit-of-my-dreams-of-being-a-voice-actor).

The first time I made a love confession, I was ruthlessly rejected.

But it wasn't even my "love" that was rejected, because according to him, it wasn't "love" at all. It was only a flash-fire obsession with something new and interesting. I had been so sure though. The way my heartbeat accelerated, mouth got dry, and hands became a bit damp every time I saw him—they were all congruous with the symptoms Safu had off-handedly told me about once. Though I was not completely paying attention at the time, I was able to absorb the information she rattled off in her even, matter-of-factly voice.

"When a person experiences the phenomenon of 'love,'" Safu had begun, strands of her hair sticking to her scarf as the wind passed us, "certain hormones are released into the body. When you see someone you like, your pupils involuntarily dilate. This is why people have 'romantic, candle-lit' dinners. Because of the low lighting, your pupils naturally expand to let more light in. Due to this, people perceive each other as being 'in love' with them…."

She went on like that until the school bell rang, and we had to go back inside for class. I was only half-listening.

I wondered now if it was she or I who was wrong. Or maybe it was him.

But the way he told me—

 

* * *

 

He asked me if he hurt my feelings right afterward. And he had. The cold pit of disappointment and shame which threw itself against my ribcage was suffocating. To crush those feelings I expressed so genuinely to him—he had dashed them on the floor and ground them with his heel. It hurt even more because of the warm palm he was leaning against my cheek. If he did not reciprocate my feelings, then why offer me such an intimate gesture?

 

* * *

 

I kept trying to get my feelings across, though I no longer understood them.

 

* * *

 

I want to know more about him. The things I've observed aren't enough.

He dislikes seafood, enjoys scalding soup, is picky about salt content, is intelligent but disorganized, and is easily irritated. He doesn't like the cold and prefers the dark. Dawn is his favorite part of the day, and he always sleeps facing the wall, except when I'm not there, in which he faces out. When he drinks, he always takes an experimental sip before following up with a longer draught. Besides reading the classics, he thoroughly enjoys tongue-twisters. If he gets embarrassed, he tugs at the front of the superfiber cloth around his neck.

But I want to know more.

 

* * *

 

Inukashi once told me that, before I came along, he had never seen him being so expressive before. I thought he had always been like that. With me, he constantly had a quick retort or snappish comment. Everything I did or said either amused or irked him. He didn't hide his emotions around me.

I wondered, then, if maybe I was the only one who had been able to fully see this side of him. Why was he, who so adamantly told me not to trust him, not to get close to him, not to cry for or protect him, so easily letting me into his life? Why did he show me all these things about him without a second thought?

I don't understand.

 

* * *

 

Even though he tries very hard to put up a tough front, he's actually very expressive. It's not hard to see him when he's angry, and there are exceptional moments when he will crack a smile or outright laugh. Sometimes they're sincere, and other times, they're harsh. Sweet, silver edges tinged with sharpened razor blades, his emotions easily turn dangerous in a blink of an eye. On the off chance that I catch him momentarily unguarded, he will show me a split second of his completely open and vulnerable face. Surprise. Fear. Embarrassment, like the time he went to sleep with wet hair and woke up with it sticking out wildly. No matter how much he pressed it down, he couldn't tame it.

Rare moments of softness, when the night was getting late and we were both tired and sleepy. Times when tender seconds solidified to biting words. Split-second ire, extinguished at the next turn of the heel.

He is not emotionless.

 

* * *

 

 

He's always touching me. On my cheek, he brushes the back of his fingers against it or cradles it against his palm. On my shoulder, he clasps it firmly. Against my neck and throat, he curls his fingers against my skin, ready to crush my life in. Then on my waist and the small of my back, he applies a gentle pressure just to remind me he's there. He's always touching me but never in an intrusive way.

It's not love.

 

* * *

 

I kissed him first and got punched in the face for it afterwards.

 

* * *

 

I'm selfish, so I can't bear the thought of losing him. No one to wake up next to, to be scolded by, to laugh with, to make laugh, to lean on, to dance with, to walk side-by-side down the crowded streets—

The idea is a bitter one. Maybe because of this, I am weak. I would have no one to depend on. I've learned so much, but it's not enough to keep me alive for long.

I'm selfish, so I want to die before him.

 

* * *

 

The couch is so small that our shoulders sometimes touch when we're eating. He's well-versed at playing the piano. A few times, he's played it, but not for me. In the morning, when he first wakes up, he looks incredibly peeved. He'll always roll over and doze off for another two minutes before actually getting up. When he puts on his jacket, he will fix his right sleeve at least twice. While I read to Hamlet, he looks at me with a severely sullen expression. Before turning a page in a book, he'll run his finger down the edge of the tome. When he's cooking and thinks I'm too far into the room to hear him, he hums underneath his breath. Even if he says harsh words, he still does thoughtful things for me.

One time, I made him laugh so hard he snorted out loud. He was so mortified, he tackled me down to the bed and began to tickle me, exhausting the both of us until he flopped down next to me and closed his eyes. His shoulders shook once or twice after that, the testaments of his silent laughter. The back of his hand touched mine. When I gingerly nudged him with my knuckles, he laced his fingers with mine.

He fell asleep before me, and I lay there wondering what it all meant.

When I made my first confession, I was certain it was love.

The quickened pulse, the shaky knees, the breathless words—

Every time I saw him, I wanted to smile, to say something to him, to know more about him, to be by him.

If this is not love, then what is it?

I thought back to my friendship with Safu, which I treasured so much. It never pained me like this when I was with her. With Safu, I was just as comfortable as I am with him, but it's different. In a way, I feel so close to him, yet I know nothing about him at all. We're leagues apart, though I could feel his warmth right here.

Maybe it's because he's a boy too.

I don't know.

I, too, closed my eyes and tightened my fingers around his, which had long ago relaxed with his consciousness.

I drifted off, wondering if being friends with Nezumi was supposed to be this painful.


End file.
